


The Warrior and the Thief

by Purple_Scorpi0



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, It's late, Keane might love Otto, Little bit of angst, M/M, Oops, Self-Serving, Whump, and women, however Otto loves shiny things, in general, seriously i just wrote this to make myself feel better, sorry Keane, why am I making this more complicated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 23:16:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15761733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purple_Scorpi0/pseuds/Purple_Scorpi0
Summary: A tall, dark, and handsome warrior and a scrappy blond thief are friends, and get into trouble with some bandits (don't ask me why). This is how they get home. Gratuitous whump, not much plot, and writing practice for my own satisfaction. Enjoy!





	The Warrior and the Thief

They had battled, back to back, for what seemed like a lifetime. Finally, all of the bandits lay at their feet, and they stood in the midst of the carnage, leaning on each other. Otto was the first to move, shifting his weight slowly, painfully, and lowering his sword. Agony spiked up from his hip, across his back to tingle through his shoulder and numb his left arm. He wasn’t sure how that had happened, but he was still standing and that was the important part. “Hey, Keane, you still upright?” he grunted as he turned to face his friend. But when he caught sight of the dark-haired warrior, his blood went cold.

Keane mumbled something, swaying as he pressed an arm to his blood-soaked side. His legs started to fold, and Otto caught him and held him up, biting his cheek and growling a curse to endure the pain of his own wounds. “Oh, no you don’t. Let’s go.”

“Go?” Keane’s eyes were unfocused and his legs unsteady. He leaned most of his weight on Otto which, considering that he was a head taller, broader in the shoulders, and deeper in the chest than his lean friend, was significant.

“Yes, oh mighty warrior,” Otto puffed, “We’re going home.” He somehow got them to the edge of the field, then sat Keane down against a tree and took a look at his side. He winced in sympathy, feeling a pang of worry for his friend. One of the bandits’ swords must have gotten through his defense, tearing a deep, long gash in his lower left torso. Had it been any deeper, it would have gutted him. Well, Otto would do what he could. 

He hurried back to the battleground and looted the bandits’ bodies for supplies. He was a thief, after all. Might as well live up to it. He’d never outright stolen from the dead, though, much less those he had killed himself. He tried not to think about it. He’d have plenty of time to lose his lunch later. To his relief, he found a small bottle of whiskey and a suture kit among the other detritus, and took a few spare shirts to use as bandages. He hurried back to where Keane sat slumped against the tree, and roused him with a gentle slap to the face. “Hey, stay awake if you can. I don’t want you getting spooked and skewering me while I stitch you up.”

Keane groaned and his head flopped to the other side, but his sharp blue eyes cracked open and he glared daggers at his diminutive friend. “Can’t you… let a man rest?” he grunted.

“No,” said Otto briskly. “We’re still not safe here. And I promised your mother I’d take care of you.”

Keane grumbled, but he couldn’t really argue with that, so he bore it as he bore most everything. After a moment, about halfway through the stitches, Otto snorted and took a swig of whiskey. “You’re so good at ‘stoic’, I can’t stand it sometimes.” Keane peered at him, inscrutable. His face was pale and sweating, but he hadn’t made a sound through the burning sting of whiskey over his gash or the prick and tug of the thread sewing him closed. Otto nodded. “Yep, just like that. How do you do it?”

One corner of Keane’s mouth turned up, then his eyes slid down, and he noticed the blood soaking Otto’s hip. He cleared his throat, then rasped, “You too.”

“What? Oh.” The thief realized what he’d seen and shrugged his good shoulder. “It’s just a scratch.”

“It’s not.”

Otto paused, not meeting his eyes, then shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll be fine.” After a moment, he was done, and sat back to inspect his handiwork. It wasn’t his best because his own hands were a bit shaky, but it would have to do. He reached for the spare shirts and wrapped them deftly around Keane’s middle. “There, done. You have a few other hurts, and I think a few things besides your head might be broken, but we can’t worry about that now. So, I’ll go find a horse or two, and we’ll get out of here.” As he stood, he staggered a step, his face twisting as pain arced through his body. He recovered quickly though, and even broke into a trot to retrieve their mounts. He didn’t find theirs, but found a couple of the bandits’ horses wandering around and brought them back. “Now for the hard part,” he said. Keane looked a question at him. “Just trying to think of the best way to get a massive lump of muscle onto a horse without tearing the stitches holding said lump together.”

One of Keane’s eyebrows rose, and he grunted, “Help me up.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve rested.”

Otto scrubbed a hand through his filthy blond hair, shrugged his good shoulder, and reached down to haul Keane to his feet. The warrior swayed, but stayed standing, and pressed his arm firmly against his side as he shuffled up to the horse. Then, somehow, with Otto’s help, and without stretching or twisting that side of his body the least little bit, he clambered onto the back of a sturdy mountain horse. They were both huffing and panting by the end of it, and Otto waved him off. “You go, leave me behind,” he said in a melodramatic voice, “remember me to my baubles.” If he were honest (which he wasn’t that often), he was stalling getting on his own acquired mount. He had a bad feeling that riding would be worse than walking. He would have walked and led the horse bearing his friend, but they needed to move faster than that. And besides, he might not make it on his own strength.

“Don’t even joke,” Keane growled. 

Otto’s gaze was surprised as he met the warrior’s eyes. He felt an odd sort of warmth at the thought that Keane cared that much what happened to him. He played it off with a wide, placating grin. “All right, all right.” He took hold of the saddle, took a bracing breath, and swung his leg up and over. He had to stop and hang on for a moment while the world went dark around the edges, and when he came back to himself, he noticed Keane looking at him with concern. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

They urged the horses forward as fast as Keane could bear, which was little more than a gentle trot. At one point, they had broken into a canter to go down a hill, and he’d blacked out and nearly toppled from his horse. Otto caught him, and through the bolstering power of foul language and his remaining dregs of strength, somehow kept him from falling and righted him enough to keep going. The horses were pressed side to side so that Otto could hold onto his friend. Unfortunately, it was the right side, and his injured hip bore the brunt of the horses’ jostling. The thief nearly blacked out himself a couple of times.

A few miles later, Keane roused enough to at least hold onto the horse, and Otto pulled away with significant relief. “Almost there,” he told his friend. He was feeling oddly light-headed, and all he could think about was a nice hot bath and his nice warm bed. His horse tossed her head and snorted, jerking him out of his half-aware state. He shook his head, patted her and clicked his tongue, then looked over to check on Keane. His friend was still holding on, but his eyes were unfocused, and he was swaying in the saddle. Otto reached over to steady him, wincing and trying not to twist or move or even use any of the muscles in his aching back. 

He had managed to at least bandage the multiple shallow punctures and gashes in his hip and back from that mountain of a bandit’s massive nailed club, but he could do nothing for the deeper damage of torn back muscles, at least one broken rib, and the strange numbness in his shoulder and arm. He’d have to wait until he got home. And he didn’t expect any warm welcomes from Keane’s family. He’d gotten their golden boy into trouble again. No, he would just have to make it back to the slums tonight, beg Jezz for a few herbs and a safer place to sleep than his usual lair for a few days. 

He almost missed it when Keane’s family estate came into view. He sluggishly pulled the horses to a halt, and tried to call out to the gate guards, but his voice came out as little more than a croak. He cleared his throat, which felt like a desert had taken up residence, and tried again. “Hello, the house! Let us in, Keane needs a healer.”

The guards took one look at them and opened the gate. Someone blew a whistle, and the courtyard erupted into light and motion. They came to take Keane off his horse, and Otto turned to help. “Careful, it’s his left —” Mid sentence, as he leaned to steady his friend, the pain finally, completely overwhelmed him, and he toppled from the horse in a motionless heap on the cobbles.

The grievously injured warrior wasn’t aware of much, but he certainly noticed when Otto fell from the horse. He stopped the captain of his father’s guard with a hand on his arm, and fought to focus on the man’s face. “He saved my life,” Keane rasped, “Help him.”

“We will, son. Her ladyship already ensured that.”

That done, Keane nodded, then allowed himself to finally let go. The world went dark and blissfully painless, and he knew no more.


End file.
